LizMom

My 5 year old [future] stepdaughter called me mommy over the weekend.

At first I figured it to be one of those moments where a 5 year old calls every woman mommy. The almost 7 year old says “That’s not Mom, that’s Liz.” The 5 yo retorts “So?” The 7yo asks me what I want them to call me. I say “Sweetie, you can call me whatever you want. I don’t care.” They came up with a plethora of pet names, one even being Sharpie; when the 7yo suggested LizMom, there was a cheer from the 5yo.

It seemed like the simplest of gestures and notions, but I could see the wheels turning in my stepson’s mind. Just a couple of weeks ago during Thanksgiving at his grandma’s he says to me, “Did you know that you’re going to be my stepmom soon?” I said, “Yeah?! Is that okay with you??” He paused for a moment, contemplating. He tried to hide his face a little, but the biggest smile crept across him as he said yes and that he’d like that a lot.

Later that evening, he tells me that I am now the LizMom and “catches me” with his WaterBall Pokeball thing. (I’m still learning ok? My godson prefers Mario and Minecraft. Pokemon is new to me; I wasn’t that kind of nerd growing up. But I’m really really good at building pokemons out of Legos apparently!)  Anyways he tells me he’s going to keep me, except for when I need to cook for him of course. I now live in a blue WaterBall. Perfect!

I am the LizMom. They usually still just call me Liz or Izzy, which is fine. LizMom is fine. And unless they’re just hell-bent on it, I actually prefer to not be known as “Mom.” I know their biological mother is rather sensitive and insecure and I don’t want to be bundled under the same lable. I’m a bonus.

Regardless of what I am called, I am a part of the tribe. They have accepted me. They have made me their own.

I am the LizMom.